


Kiss The Sky (Learn How To Kneel)

by singingwithoutwords



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BDSM, Coffee Shops, D/s, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Obie is a creep, the exact opposite of safe sane and consensual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singingwithoutwords/pseuds/singingwithoutwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard's life is far from perfect, but he's managed to find some small measure of peace with the way things are.  Then he stops at some stupid coffee shop, and suddenly everything's coming undone around him.  He'd never set foot in there again if the coffee wasn't so good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Mean I'm not Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I get ideas that make my skin crawl and just really need to write them.
> 
> I'm so sorry.

The coffee shop was new. If he hadn't been running late, Howard would never have stopped there; thanks to an accident blocking the way to the office, though, he'd have to waste an additional five minutes he didn't have in order to reach his usual place. He'd just have to take a chance and hope the coffee here was at least drinkable, if not actually good.

The place was tiny and empty, but it was clean. The large windows meant it was well-lit, and Howard knew enough about interior design to know a lot of thought had gone into decorating this place. It felt... well, he imagined this was what people meant when they talked about 'homey'. It was an inviting sort of place.

There was one employee behind the counter, a well-built man probably in his mid to late twenties with dark hair, brilliant blue-gray eyes, and a wide smile.

“Afternoon, sir,” he said brightly. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee,” Howard said. “Black, in whatever pretentious name you've given a large.”

The barista laughed. “Here we just call that a large,” he said, turning slightly to grab one of the large cups and a lid. “Anything to go with it? Our chef makes a mean danish.”

“Just the coffee.”

“You got it, boss. That'll be $3.75.”

Howard pulled out his wallet, finding a crisp five, and set it down on the counter. The barista set down the coffee and picked up the bill. He ran the transaction and held out the change with a smile that melted into a frown when Howard held out his free hand.

“Is that rope burn?”

Only long practice at hiding his reactions kept him from cursing out loud. A quick glance showed that yes, the abrasions and bruising on his wrist _were_ peeking out past the cuff of his shirt, angry red and purple. Shit.

“I know it's not my place, dude, but you should talk to your partner,” the barista said. “Tying you so it leaves marks like that is dangerous.”

Screw it. He was a millionaire, what the hell was $1.25 to him?

He turned and left. Next time he was going to his usual place no matter how late it made him. That place was always crowded and the employees didn't give a fuck.

He was half a block from the office when he remembered he was still holding his coffee. He debated throwing it away, but he did need the caffeine and it was too late to go somewhere else, so he took a sip.

It was the best coffee he'd had in years.

 

* * *

 

“You're late,”

“I'm aware, Obie,” Howard said, sighing as Obie fell into step to his right. “I needed coffee.”

“You should have let me give you a ride,” Obie said. “I stopped for coffee, too.”

“You stopped for coffee at _Starbucks_ ,” Howard corrected, making a face. “That isn't coffee, it's pig swill, and I'd rather give up caffeine completely than drink it.”

Obie laughed, but let it drop. Howard being a coffee snob was a longstanding feature of their relationship, going all the way back to when they'd first met each other. Neither of them was going to change their minds; it was just an argument to drag out when they had nothing better to talk about.

“So are you going to tell me what the hell I'm doing here instead of inventing the next-generation smart missile?” Howard asked after a minute of walking in silence.

“For one, you invented the next-generation smart missile last week,” Obie said. “DOD was very happy with it, by the way. You're here because if the Board doesn't see you at least once a month they start feeling neglected.”

Howard sighed, rolling his eyes. “This couldn't have waited until the shareholders' meeting next week?”

“That was last week. You missed it while you were inventing the next-generation smart missile.”

Howard downed the rest of his coffee and dropped the cup in the nearest garbage bin. “Great. Please tell me the hand-holding isn't happening right now.”

“I know you,” Obie said, smiling. “We have about forty minutes.”

Howard opened his mouth to respond, instead biting off a yelp when Obie shoved him against the wall and pinned him there, kissing him hard.

“I can think of one thing to do with the time,” he commented, pulling back with a grin.

Howard glared, planting his hands against Obie's chest and shoving. Obie was taller and heavier than him, so it didn't do much, but it at least showed clearly that he was not in the mood. “I thought we agreed not in _public_ , you asshole,” he snapped, because even after nearly eleven years he was still somehow surprised when Obie pulled this shit.

Obie laughed, but backed off, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Easy, tiger. Just having fun with you.”

“Do that again and I'll break your nose,” Howard threatened, straightening his suit and glancing up and down the hall. Thank God, it didn't look like anyone had seen.

“What, kiss my lover?”

“Calling me that is something else you agreed not to do in public,” Howard reminded him flatly. “Are you _trying_ to out me?”

“Easy,” Obie soothed, patting his shoulder. “Nobody saw, Howard, I promise. I made sure. You really think I'd do that to you? Don't you trust me?”

Howard flushed, dropping his gaze to the tiled floor. “Of course I trust you,” he said, sighing. “I overreacted. Sorry. I guess I'm just... tense.”

“Forgiven,” Obie said, pulling Howard away from the wall and draping an arm around his shoulder. Howard couldn't object to that, Obie was tactile, no one would think anything of it. “Come on, let's go to your office. Calm you down a bit before we meet with the Board.”

Howard nodded, letting Obie lead him away. He just needed to calm down. That barista had probably forgotten all about him by now. He had nothing to worry about.

 

* * *

 

Bucky didn't generally think of himself as the nosy type. He was willing to listen when a friend had a problem, but he wasn't the type to encourage strangers on the bus to pour their hearts out to him or anything. He tended to err more on the side of respecting privacy whenever possible. But hell, he doubted anyone could blame him.

He'd seen bruising like that before. Not for a while, but he still shuddered at the memory of the woman, girl really, cradling her wrists against her chest and flinching away from anyone who moved too close. According to her police statement, it had taken nearly 12 hours of fighting to leave those marks.

True, the guy hadn't acted like her. He'd looked healthy, well-off, confident, which was why Bucky had assumed the marks were from rough play, except...

Except Bucky had seen his eyes. That flash of fear was something else he knew far too well.

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't the dealing-with-people half of this show.

“What's up?” Steve asked from the doorway, and Bucky couldn't help but laugh.

“I was just thinking about you,” he said, smiling.

“You're always thinking about me,” Steve said, smiling back. “Here, fresh cookies.”

Bucky nodded, pulling the mostly-empty tray out of the display case. “Yeah, but I was thinking about something other than your magnificent ass this time.”

“Oh?”

Steve was the one who knew how to handle people. He was the sensitive one. Steve was the one who sat on the bus and patiently let people dump their problems all over him.

“There was a guy in here earlier,” Bucky said, shifting cookies around to his satisfaction and resisting the urge to steal one. “He had Sammy's wrists.”

Steve froze, his inhumanly blue eyes widening. He'd been the one to find Sammy, the only one she trusted near her for weeks after her boyfriend had been carted off to jail. He wasn't going to forget her any time soon, either.

“I screwed up,” he continued, sighing. “Drew attention to 'em. I wish you'd been down here.”

“What did he do?” Steve asked.

“Left without his change. He probably won't be back. I told you I suck at this customer service thing.”

“We wouldn't have any customers if we left the baking to you,” Steve said, pulling Bucky into a quick hug. “Don't beat yourself up. If he was in here, he obviously got away.”

Bucky nodded. He had to concede the point, but he still felt like shit. “Anything in the oven? I need a break.”

“Go,” Steve said, pushing him toward the back with a smile. “No more than two.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Steve just smiled and blew him a kiss. At least he hadn't insisted Bucky quit smoking completely when they moved here- he really needed a cigarette right now.

 

* * *

 

Howard actually made it home on time for once. He wasn't really aware of what exactly constituted 'on time', but he knew he'd managed it today because Maria saw fit to inform him. She was descending the main staircase – a woman like Maria was far too cultured to just walk down the stairs – as he came in the front door, and arched one carefully shaped eyebrow at him.

“You're home on time for once,” she said, taking the last few steps to the foyer marble. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Hello, Maria,” Howard said. Best to not rise to the bait- the last thing they needed was another shouting match in front of the staff.

Maria wasn't the wife Howard would have chosen. Hell, if it had been up to Howard he'd still be a bachelor. But his choice had been marrying Maria or being disowned, and he'd opted to keep the future he'd been preparing all his life for. There'd never been anything deeper than respect between the two of them, and even that had been waning since Tony was born. It seemed sometimes that Maria never spoke to him anymore unless she was listing his failures as a husband and father.

“Are you coming to dinner?” Maria asked. “Or do you have better things to do?”

“Don't start,” Howard said. “Or at least pretend you actually want me there.”

“My life wouldn't suffer much if I never saw you again,” Maria agreed. “But Tony still likes you. You should take advantage of that while it lasts.”

It was tempting, just for a moment, to leave. To go out to the garage, climb into one of his cars, and just drive away. If he showed up on Obie's doorstep, the man would be thrilled to see him, and Howard would be able to forget everything, just for a little while. But he knew if he left now, Maria would be waiting when he got back, stewing in her anger, and it would be an all-out war instead of a battle he might be able to avoid with a little careful work.

“Fine,” he said, pulling off his tie and setting it and his briefcase on the table. Jarvis would see they went where they belonged, and he might as well get this over with. Maria turned on her heel, and Howard followed her to the informal dining room, where the table was already set.

Tony was sitting at his usual spot when they came in, his dark hair sticking up every which way and still damp.

“Hi, Dad,” Tony said, bouncing slightly in his seat. “Can we eat now? I'm starving, Jarvis said no snacks and wouldn't let me have any even when I said pretty please and I haven't ate anything since lunchtime and I'm really really hungry and-”

“Tony,” Maria said as she sat, her tone warming just a little. She was a frigid bitch to Howard – definitely not without reason, mind you – but she still loved their son. “Breathe between sentences, please.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Tony apologized immediately, smiling at her.

Howard sat. This wasn't the formal dining room, so even sitting at opposite ends left him within comfortable conversation distance of Maria. He ignored that fact. So did she. They were less likely to fight in front of Tony if they just didn't talk.

Tony kept up a constant stream of chatter between bites and Maria's admonishments to not talk with his mouth full. Howard couldn't make much sense of it, but he thought it might be mainly about whatever Tony had done that day.

Tony's talking hit a lull after about ten minutes, plunging the dining room into heavy silence until Maria cleared her throat.

“Will you and Obie be going out for drinks tonight?” she asked without looking up from her plate.

Again, it was tempting. He and Obie had their own problems, but Howard at least knew how to solve those. He had no idea how to handle Maria, not even after eight years of being married to her.

“Not tonight,” he said at length. “I have too much work to do.” And he did. He had projects and proposals to review, paperwork that needed to be sorted through, all the tedious and boring parts of owning the company that kept Maria in Riviera vacations and fancy evening gowns.

“Ah.”

She sounded disappointed. Probably she'd been hoping to invite her latest lover over once Tony was in bed. Frankly, Howard wouldn't mind if she did that, anyway. He didn't exactly have room to harp about fidelity, and that way at least _someone_ in this forsaken house would be happy.

He wasn't hungry anymore.

Howard set his fork down and stood, leaving his plate more than half full. “Good night,” he said, turning and leaving the dining room without waiting for a reply, going straight to his office and locking the door.

He let work swallow the passage of time, and when he stumbled into a guest room at almost three in the morning, he told himself it was just because he didn't want to wake Maria.

He was such a good liar he almost believed it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title comes from the song _Mysterious Ways_ by U2.  
>  Chapter title is from _Bed of Roses_ by Bon Jovi.


	2. No Place to Go, Anyway

Howard woke up groggy and disoriented for a moment, trying to remember where he was and if what he'd done last night had involved anything explosive. Wouldn't be the first time he'd knocked himself out playing around in his lab.

He rolled onto his back, waiting while his brain booted up and processed last night for him. No, he'd been in his office, no unstable compounds there. He'd just gotten a shitty night's sleep, that was all.

“Are you with us, sir?”

Howard pried his eyes open and turned his head slightly. Jarvis was standing next to the bed looking as impeccable and unruffled as ever. He had about fifteen years on Howard and decades of service experience, and it probably wasn't exaggerating to say he was the only reason Howard and Maria hadn't managed to kill each other yet.

“What time is it?” Howard asked, forcing himself to sit up. He was still wearing his suit from yesterday- those wrinkles were going to be a bitch for someone to get out.

“A quarter past eight o'clock, sir,” Jarvis said. “I've prepared the bathroom for you. Will you be having breakfast today?”

“No, thank you,” Howard said, standing and stretching. “Is Maria awake yet?” Better to avoid her if he could; she'd probably be itching for a fight after him storming off like that.

“No, sir. I felt it best to wake you first,” Jarvis said, laying a clean suit on the bed, and Howard smiled. Jarvis was always looking out for him.

“How would I manage without you, Jarvis?” he asked.

“Poorly, I imagine,” Jarvis answered, with a slight smile that softened the blow. Hey, the truth hurt sometimes. “I'll leave you to your morning, sir.”

Howard waited until Jarvis closed the door before he stripped off his shirt. The bruises on his wrist were still there, but the swelling had at least gone down, and the marks probably wouldn't last more than a couple days. The other wrist was in better shape, but it would take at least a week for the bruises on his upper arms to fade.

With a sigh, he shed the rest of his clothing and headed for the _en suite_ bathroom.

He showered quickly, even though he didn't have to be at the office for another couple hours. Once he was dried and shaved, he hunted up a roll of bandages and wrapped his wrist. As long as no one could actually see the damage, he could claim it was an accident. He certainly banged himself up enough to make it plausible.

Ten minutes later saw him dressed and ready to leave. He could stop somewhere to grab coffee on the way, and it wasn't like an extra hour at the office was going to hurt anything.

Jarvis met him at the door with his briefcase and wished him good day, and Howard escaped to the garage.

Howard employed a driver, but mainly for Maria- she came from old money, and was used to a certain standard of living. Stark Industries had barely broken into the millions-in-profit bracket when Howard inherited it, and he was used to doing a great deal more for himself, including driving, so he bypassed the town car and went straight for the Jaguar. After his meeting, he could take the top down and just go for a drive. That would be nice.

It turned out that yesterday's accident had done enough damage his usual route was still blocked. Howard detoured, finding himself outside that new coffee shop again. He almost drove right past it, but his stubborn pride thought that would constitute running away, so he pulled into the miniscule parking lot instead.

The barista from yesterday was nowhere to be seen; instead the counter was manned by a woman with curly brown hair and dark brown eyes. Her lipstick was a shade of deep red you didn't see much these days, and she was undoubtedly beautiful. Any normal man probably found her very attractive.

“Good morning, sir,” she said politely. “What can I get you today?”

“Large coffee, black,” Howard said, fighting the urge to tug his shirt cuff down over the bandage on his wrist.

She nodded. “Will that be all?”

Howard glanced down at the display of baked goods. “I'm told this place does a good danish,”

She smiled. Howard got the distinct impression she would be purring right now, if she only had the ability. “Yes. The cherry ones are to die for.”

“Hopefully I'll live through the experience,” Howard joked with a slight smile of his own. “I'll take one of those, too.”

She wrapped up a danish and set it on the counter along with a large coffee. “That'll be eight dollars even.”

Howard handed over a ten and stuffed the change into the tip jar. “You have a nice day.”

“You as well, sir. And please do come back.”

Howard saluted her with his danish as he headed out the door.

 

* * *

 

Peggy counted exactly ten seconds after the door closed before Bucky popped out the stairwell he'd vanished up as soon as he'd seen the customer out the main window.

He looked like he'd just been caught swiping biscuits before supper, a look not quite as common as some might think. Firstly, Bucky was not the troublemaker he looked; secondly, he rarely felt guilt over anything he thought, said, or did.

“Do you know him?” Peggy asked, affecting disinterest as she wiped crumbs off the counter.

“Not really,” Bucky said, shrugging. “He came in here yesterday. I ran my mouth.”

“He came back,” Peggy said, shrugging. “It can't have been all that awful.”

“He probably wouldn't have if he'd seen me,” Bucky said, sighing.

“I won't have you filling my shop up with gloom,” Peggy informed him, crossing her arms. “If you're going to sulk, kindly do it elsewhere.”

“ _Your_ shop?” Bucky demanded, just as she'd known he would. “Why, you uppity little- I should spank you.”

Peggy laughed. “We both know how that would end, love, and neither one of us wants that.”

Bucky nodded, stepping behind the counter and hugging her. “Thanks, Peggy. Seriously.”

Peggy waved him off with feigned exasperation. “Out, out,” she ordered. “Go play with your kitten and get out of my way.”

“You know he hates it when you call him that,”

“Then he should stop hissing at me. Out!”

Bucky obeyed, laughing, and Peggy smiled after him. That boy would be the death of her, she was certain, but he would always be the little brother she'd never had.

 

* * *

 

“You're early,”

“You're never satisfied, are you?” Howard asked, sighing. “I own the building and have no set work hours, I can come in whenever I want.”

Obie laughed, clapping Howard on the shoulder and nearly making him spill his coffee. “Fair enough. So what brings you here so early today?”

“Maria,” he answered shortly, polishing off his danish before Obie could steal a bite.

Obie winced sympathetically, pulling open the door to Howard's office and waving him in. “Another fight?”

Howard shook his head. “No, just avoiding one as long as possible.”

“Do you want me to try talking to her?” Obie asked, closing the door as Howard sank into his chair with a sigh.

“No.” Honestly, that would probably just make things worse. “I want...”

“Want what?” Obie pressed after a moment of silence.

“I don't want to fight with you, either,” Howard said. “Just forget it.”

“We aren't fighting.”

“We will be if I finish that sentence.” He hoped Obie would let it drop for once, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't. Obie didn't like Howard having secrets.

“You can tell me, Howard.” Yeah, not dropping it. “I won't get mad, I promise. What do you want?”

Well, in for a penny, as the saying went... “I want to tell Maria about me. About this whole...” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Whole _thing_. ”

“We've talked about this, Howard,” Obie said, his voice taking on that pained tone it always did when they had these conversations. “Remember what happened to Hammer Corp?”

“ _Yes_ , I remember what happened to Hammer Corp,” Howard snapped. He'd only been fourteen at the time, but his father liked to drag it out when he was drunk, how one of SI's biggest competitors had gone down in flames because the CEO was having an affair with his male assistant. “It's not like I'm asking to have a goddamn parade, I just think my wife deserves to know she's married to a flaming queer.”

“It'll get out,” Obie said. “You know how women gossip- even if she doesn't mean to, she'll wind up telling her friends. Assuming she doesn't run straight to her lawyers for a divorce, and she'll take Tony with her. Is that what you want, Howard? To never see your son again?”

“You don't know that she'd bar me from seeing Tony,” Howard said, even though he knew she would. It wouldn't be hard for her to find a sympathetic judge, and no one would blame her.

“Don't be naïve, Howard.” Obie reached across the desk, laying a hand on Howard's shoulder and squeezing. The gesture was probably meant to be comforting, but it just hurt. “Look, you can't possibly be stupid enough to think anything good would come of outing yourself, so what is this really about?”

“I'm tired of lying!” Howard burst out before he could stop himself. He knew how Obie hated it when he got overemotional, but he couldn't help it. “I'm tired of living a life based almost entirely on lying about myself to everyone that's supposed to matter to me!”

“You aren't lying to me,” Obie said, standing up straight and crossing his arms over his chest. “Do I not matter?”

Howard mentally reran what he'd just said and winced. “I didn't mean it like that, Obie,” he protested. “You know I didn't.”

“I don't know what you do or don't mean half the time,” Obie said. “You've been throwing so many tantrums lately that it's hard to tell.”

“I am not throwing a tantrum.”

“Really? Then what would _you_ call this? ”

“Venting,” Howard said flatly. “Releasing pressure before it builds up to dangerous levels and I explode. Or am I not allowed to even do _that_ anymore? ”

“You're a grown man throwing a tantrum, Howard,” Obie snapped. “It needs to stop.”

“Fuck you,” Howard said. “You aren't my keeper, Obie- I can do whatever the fuck I want, whether you like it or not.”

“You're right, I'm not your keeper, but I am your best friend, and your lover, and that should give me _some_ influence in your decisions. ”

“No, it shouldn't. I'm perfectly capable of running my life without any help or input from you.”

Obie drew himself up to his full, rather impressive height. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Howard was so thrown by that, he could only stare at Obie for a full four seconds before he found his tongue. “ _What?_ ”

“That's what this is, isn't it?” Obie pressed. “This is you dumping me.”

“Maybe it is,” Howard snapped. “Maybe both of us would be better off if we ended this.”

“Fine by me. It's not like I actually _wanted_ this relationship in the first place. ”

That doused the anger faster than anything else could, just like it always did. There was no way to argue with that, no way to top it, because it was _true_. Obie was straight as a ruler. Howard was the only man he'd ever slept with, because Obie wasn't attracted to men. He wasn't sick like Howard- he'd offered this arrangement and kept it going for so long just because he didn't want Howard hurt, and in the face of that, what the hell could Howard say?

Howard sat back, closing his eyes. He couldn't behave like this. He couldn't be so ungrateful, after all Obie had done for him. “I'm sorry, Obie.”

“Are you?” Obie demanded. “Are you really, Howard?”

“Yes. You're right, and I'm sorry. I'm lucky to have you. I _know_ that. I'm sorry. I don't... I don't want to end this.”

And even if he did, who was he kidding? Obie was all he had. He was a millionaire with a huge media presence and a face most people could recognize immediately- he couldn't just go to a bar and pick up a guy without it winding up on Twitter before he finished his first drink. He couldn't take that risk. His choices were Obie or nobody, and the thought of being alone... that terrified him.

“See, Howard- _this_ is why you can't let yourself get so emotional, ” Obie said, sighing. He rounded the desk and took Howard's hand, pulling him to his feet. “You say things you don't mean, and they can have consequences.”

“I'm sorry,” Howard repeated, letting Obie pull him into a tight hug that made his ribs ache. “I'm sorry.”

“I know you are,” Obie said, letting him go. “You can make it up to me tonight, okay?”

Howard ran through his schedule and deadlines, mentally rearranging everything, and nodded. He knew Obie's forgiveness wasn't won with words, and if their last fight was any indication, he'd need the whole night to earn it.

“Okay,” Obie said. “I've got work to do- you get ready for your meeting, and be at my place at seven.”

Howard nodded again, waiting for Obie to leave before he collapsed back into his chair. It was going to be a long day, he could tell. And while he was thinking about it, he should probably call the house and let Jarvis know he wouldn't be home tonight.

At least that would make Maria happy.

He sat up a bit straighter and reached for his phone. He'd made this work so far- he just had to keep doing that, and he'd be fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from _Captain Jack_ , by Billy Joel.


	3. Wish That I Had Other Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for BDSM done completely wrong. I can count the shit Obie gets right in this chapter on one finger. Seriously, do not attempt this at home.

If Howard were to be perfectly honest with himself, he would admit that he hated most of what Obie did to him. If he were honest with himself, there were times when being completely alone seemed preferable to being with Obie. The nights when Obie made him earn forgiveness were definitely high on that list, if he were honest with himself.

But Howard avoided being honest with himself as much as possible, for a variety of reasons, so he only found himself thinking those things at times like this, when his whole body shook with the effort of staying upright, when there wasn't a part of his back that _didn't_ hurt and every breath was a struggle not to cry out.

It wasn't that he was forbidden to make noise- Obie didn't employ full-time staff, and the house was empty except for them. Obie's property was fairly substantial, so it wasn't as if there was much danger of the neighbors overhearing anything, either. Obie had never once told Howard not to make noise.

But Obie didn't _like it_ when he made noise. Obie preferred that he take his punishment in silence, like a man. So he stared hard at the wall and did his best to hold it in.

Howard hadn't bothered to count the number of hits, or keep track of the seconds ticking by; neither would give him an idea of how much he had left to endure. It would end once Obie decided he was forgiven, and only Obie knew when that would be. He had no idea how long he'd been standing there, stripped to the waist, hands braced against the wall, doing his best not to move, but it felt like lifetimes. Like an eternity. He wasn't sure he believed in God, but he was still praying this would end soon, before he passed out.

He should have eaten something. He knew better, but the anxiety had made eating impossible, and the lack of fuel was making him lightheaded and unsteady. If he passed out before Obie was done with him, they'd have to start from the beginning, and that would be so much worse.

He was past feeling the impact of the flogger itself, just an instant of sharper agony that radiated outward and settled into the burning pain already there, but he still instinctively tried to pull away. His elbows buckled for a second, but he managed to lock them again before his face actually hit the wall.

Obie gave him a second to steady himself, to breathe, before striking him again.

And again.

And again.

Howard stared at the blank space between his hands and took what he had coming.

Finally, finally – it felt like lifetimes later – Howard heard the muffled thump of the flogger being dropped on the thick carpet, signaling it was over. Howard followed suit, legs folding under him, letting the wall take most of his weight as he slid to the ground at Obie's feet.

Obie gave him a minute to recover, regain some sense of himself, before sinking to one knee, reaching out to touch Howard's shoulder. His fingers were smooth and cold against the burning welts where the flogger had wrapped around him.

“What do you say?” Obie asked softly.

“I'm sorry,” Howard gasped, when he finally found his voice again. “I'm sorry, Obie.”

Obie reached up, brushing sweat-sodden hair away from Howard's forehead. “Forgiven, Howard,” he said. “Need a minute?”

He almost shook his head, but the room was still spinning and he knew for a fact that if he tried to stand, his legs wouldn't hold him, so he nodded instead.

“Okay,” Obie said, standing with a soft groan. “I'll go see about dinner- you just take a minute, then get yourself cleaned up.”

Howard nodded again, resting his forehead against the wall and closing his eyes, letting the cool surface leech just a little of the heat from him, as Obie crossed the room to the door. He counted slowly to one hundred, then back down to zero, then recited Pi to the hundredth place, _then_ tried to stand.

He made it to his feet. Barely. He needed the wall's help to get to the _en suite_ , but he made it. He managed to cross the smooth cream tile to the vanity without falling over, somehow, and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Without the armor of an expensive suit, Howard thought he looked... frail. Bruises on his arms and wrists, angry red welts creeping over both shoulders and up his sides, tear tracks down his face. He looked hollow, worn out. He knew he wasn't weak, there was visible muscle along his arms and torso, but he still _looked_ weak, at least right now.

He hated that.

Howard reached down, turning the water on, and grabbed the nearest washcloth, using it to scrub his face, hissing softly each time he pulled just a little too far, rotated his shoulder just a little too much, making his back spasm painfully. It took longer than he would have liked, but his back couldn't handle a shower, so he did the best he could with what he had, then dropped the washcloth in the sink and met his reflection's eyes again, glaring at himself.

 _Stark men are made of iron_ , his father had said, more than once. _Stark men don't cry._

He was a Stark. He was iron. He could handle a beating, especially one he'd earned. He was fine.

He was absolutely fine.

Howard stepped back into the bedroom, still using the wall for support, and hesitated. Obie wasn't back yet, and Howard had no idea where he was supposed to wait. The last thing he wanted to do was annoy Obie by being somewhere he shouldn't.

After a long moment of debate, he decided the safest course was to act as though he were still in trouble. There was a small reading table near the window with a single chair and a soft gray microfiber blanket folded on the floor next to it- Howard made his way there, sinking to his knees and pulling the blanket over his shoulders. It was warm, comforting without weighing him down.

Safe.

Howard figured it was another ten minutes before Obie came back, carrying a large brown paper bag. He set the bag down on the table, digging out two covered dishes and a bundle of plastic cutlery and turned to Howard. “Here,” he said, holding out one of the dishes. “Eat.”

Howard took the black plastic bowl with both hands, not trusting himself to not drop it otherwise, and settled it carefully on his lap before prying off the lid. Shrimp francese and linguine, one of his favorite dishes. He really must be forgiven.

Too hungry to care about manners and breeding, Howard set the lid down and started to eat with his hands. Obie never objected to that, especially after punishments like tonight- Howard didn't have to look up to know Obie was sitting at the table and smiling. He didn't even bother giving Howard a fork half the time, so it must be okay.

He ate with single-minded focus, not looking up until the last of it was gone.

Obie took longer to finish his meal, taking the empty bowl from Howard and dropping it back in the bag before standing. Howard stayed where he was, letting his mind drift, while Obie got ready for bed. He had a few projects in the works that could stand to be gone over, and the carpet was soft enough that kneeling for an extended period of time wasn't painful.

He came back to himself when Obie stopped next to him, running a hand through his hair. “Go brush your teeth, then come to bed,” Obie instructed, smiling down at him.

Howard nodded, letting the blanket slide to the floor in a heap. He was much steadier on his feet now, and didn't need the wall to make it back to the bathroom. He barely needed to lean on the sink while he brushed his teeth, and he made it through the door again without stumbling.

Obie was already in bed, the lights turned off and everything put away. Howard walked around the bed to the other side and slid under the covers face down, shivering as the silk sheets slid across the bruises forming on his back.

He supposed he should count his blessings- he was going to be sore enough as it was in the morning, and he didn't want to think about how much worse it would be if Obie had decided he should sleep on the floor.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Howard was aware of when he woke up was pain. A lot of it. Everything, from shoulder to hip, felt stiff and sore in a way stretching would do nothing to ease.

Obie was already up, showering from the sounds of it. The curtains were open, and the morning sunlight splashed across the wall and wrought iron headboard, meaning it was later than Howard usually woke up. Obie had regular office hours, though, and tended to stick to them, so it couldn't be all that late.

Howard groaned softly, closing his eyes again, just for a minute. He didn't have any meetings scheduled for today, no pressing projects he had to work on immediately. He could laze around in bed for just a little while longer. He shifted position slightly, and would have shifted further, except something stopped his left arm from moving more than an inch or two. He frowned, opening his eyes again, and pulled his pillow aside to look at his wrist.

There was a polished cuff around his wrist, attached by three thick links to another cuff, locked around the center rail of the headboard.

Still halfway hazed with sleep, Howard's mind rattled off a dozen or so outlandish explanations before he recognized the engraving on the cuffs. They'd been a fairly extravagant purchase on Obie's part last year, heavy steel with a hard chrome plating. Obie had bought them as a birthday present, to replace the thinner handcuffs that Howard was always worried might damage his wrists if he accidentally struggled too much. They were engraved with Howard's initials and a simplified circuit board design, and Howard knew they didn't use them nearly as much as Obie would like.

Howard sat up, wincing slightly, as Obie sauntered out of the bathroom humming to himself. “What the hell, Obie?”

Obie smiled at him, walking to the closet. “Good morning to you, too,” he said brightly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Unlock these,” Howard snapped, fighting the urge to tug on the cuff; that would only hurt his wrist and shoulder.

“You need a day off, Howard,” Obie said, browsing through his clothing. “I'm just making sure you get one.”

“You don't need to shackle me to the bed for that.”

Obie laughed, shaking his head as he started getting dressed. “I know you, Howard- if I don't tie you down somehow, it'll be all of ten minutes before you're working on something.”

“This isn't funny, Obie,” Howard said. “Uncuff me.”

“Later,” Obie said, shrugging into his jacket. “Don't worry- the maid has the day off.”

“That isn't what I'm worried about!” The maids knew not to clean Obie's room if the door was closed, and Howard sincerely doubted Obie planned to leave it _open_. “I'm serious, Obie, get these off me!”

“Don't be so dramatic, Howard- a day in bed isn't going to kill you. I'll be back for lunch; they come off then.”

“You can't do this,” Howard insisted, resolutely not wincing at how much like a cliché movie damsel he sounded.

“I'm pretty sure we agreed I can,” Obie said, stepping up to the bed. He cupped a hand around Howard's neck and pulled him closer to the edge of the mattress, kissing his forehead. “You get some rest. You've earned it.”

Howard almost objected again. He was nothing if not a stubborn bastard. But really, they _had_ agreed that Obie could do whatever he wanted in the bedroom, with only a very few lines Howard didn't want crossed. This wasn't one of those lines, so technically he really didn't have a right to object.

So he let Obie leave without another word. Lunchtime. He could last that long. He'd have to. Mindful of his limited range of movement, Howard lied back down and closed his eyes once more.

Sleep didn't come easy, but it did eventually come.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Obie did come back at lunchtime. He unlocked the shackles, and didn't object when Howard stood and shoved past him and out of the master suite.

One of the guest rooms was set up to at least look like Howard slept there when he spent the night, meaning it held at least the basic toiletries and a few spare suits. Howard made himself presentable in record time, not even bothering with a tie.

Obie wasn't in the hall. Howard didn't see him at all as he hurried down the stairs and out to the garage.

The Jag had comfortably padded seats covered in soft suede, but even they were almost too much, and Howard ruthlessly suppressed the urge to sob when accelerating out onto the drive pushed him back.

He had every intention of going straight home. He climbed into his car thinking of nothing but a cool bath, some hefty painkillers, and several hours locked in his workshop alone.

But somehow, that wasn't where he wound up going.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from _What Have You Done_ by Within Temptation.


	4. I'm Sick But I'm Pretty, Baby

Bucky very nearly panicked when the door opened and Large Black, Bruised Wrist walked in. He'd been hoping to avoid the guy for a while longer, give him time to forget that one rude-ass employee who nosed into his business, but apparently that wasn't meant to be. The only other person in the store was Sam, who enjoyed watching Bucky squirm too much to get him out of it, and there was no time now, anyway.

The guy frankly looked like absolute hell. Like a well-dressed, well-groomed zombie. He stumbled three steps in the door before he even looked at the counter, and stared owlishly at Bucky for a second before shaking his head and making the last few steps with a bit more confidence and swagger.

“Afternoon, sir,” Bucky said politely. Maybe the guy didn't remember him, or was too out of it to recognize him? “What can I get for you?”

It took him a few seconds to answer, staring blankly at the counter; that set off some alarms, which Bucky tried his best to ignore. “Large. Black.”

Bucky nodded, turning toward the pot. After his last epic fail with this guy, he didn't want to chance crossing any lines. Just do his job, not scare the guy off, maybe text Steve under the counter and get him back here before the guy left again...

Okay, he'd meant to think that last one sarcastically, but it actually wasn't a bad idea. Steve could make _anyone_ feel at home, no matter how jumpy. The sheer force of his human goodness and wish to help was how every place they lived turned into a sort of underground railroad station for the abused and unwanted. And a glance at the pot in his hand gave him the perfect excuse.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, looks like we have grounds in here,” he said. “I'll have to brew a fresh pot. It won't take long.”

The man nodded, sighing, and leaned carefully against the counter.

“Want something to eat in the meantime?” Bucky asked, dumping the contaminated pot and heading for the cabinet where they kept the beans. “On the house.” He smiled his most charming and tried not to let himself get worried when it took the guy way too long to answer again.

“Yeah. I should probably eat.”

Bucky nodded, grabbing a blueberry-lemon muffin out of the display case and setting it on a napkin on the counter.

His pride in his new business wouldn't let him hurry the process of actually making coffee, but he made sure to keep an eye on the guy while he did it, and while he slipped his phone out of his pocket and fired a quick _where are you?_ text at Steve.

 _Bank_ was the one-word reply, which did not bode well for Bucky's half-formed 'let Steve swoop in and handle this' plan. The bank was a ten-minute drive at least, assuming Steve left now – which he wouldn't, he was probably with the teller right now if he wasn't ending his text with a heart – and coffee did not take that long to brew.

The guy was at least eating, albeit mechanically and with no evidence of enjoying what more than one person would call the best baked goods this side of the Mississippi. Bucky grabbed another muffin and set it in the crumbs of the first one, and the guy didn't even seem to realize: he just picked it up and started eating it, too.

Seriously, what the hell was wrong with this guy?

By the time the coffee was done, Bucky had gotten a total of two muffins, one cookie, and three mini scones into the guy, so at least he knew he was being fed well.

“Have a nice day,” he said instead of a total, and the guy just took the cup of coffee and left.

As soon as the door swung shut, Sam got up from his table in the corner and sauntered over to the counter, grinning. “So does Steve know about your new crush, or are you keeping this one for yourself?” he teased. “You know if you break Steve's heart I'm gonna have to beat you up.”

Normally Bucky was more than willing to give as good as he got- sometimes it felt like he and Sam only knew how to communicate through snark and riling each other up. Right now, though, he had more important things on his mind. So he ignored Sam, staring hard at the door as if it could give him some answers.

“Bucky?” Sam asked, leaning over the counter and poking Bucky lightly in the arm. “You okay?”

“Did he seem like he was hurting to you?” Bucky asked, biting his lip. “He was moving stiff. Worse than yesterday.”

“Wait, wait, so this is the guy you hid from yesterday?” Sam asked. “Not teasing now- does Steve know about this?”

"Yes," Bucky said.  "I know it's not your day, but you're obviously not busy-"

"I got things down here," Sam said.  "Steve be back soon?"

"I hope so," Bucky said, sighing.  He stepped out from behind the counter, letting Sam give him a quick hug.  "Thanks."

"Any time," Sam assured him, waving him toward the stairs.  "Go."

Bucky headed upstairs without another word, thankful not for the first time that he and Steve were surrounded by such incredible and understanding friends.

 

* * *

 

When Howard looked back on that day later, he'd often marvel at the fact he made it home alive. Between the pain, the grogginess of a bad morning's sleep, and the strange emotional emptiness that always seemed to follow especially intense sessions with Obie, it was a wonder he had any mental capacity left over for driving.

He did make it home in one piece somehow, pulling into the empty garage, turning off the car and just sitting there for what felt like lifetimes. He was home. He could relax. He was safe.

He eventually convinced himself to climb out of the car, leaving his half-empty coffee in the cup holder. At this time of day Tony would be at preschool, and Maria was probably off somewhere doing whatever it was she did all day. No one to bother him. No one to care if he crawled into bed and stayed there until tomorrow.

Except Maria wasn't off somewhere. She was lying in wait in the doorway to the master bedroom, dressed to impress in a cream-colored pantsuit and pearls. It was pointless to ignore her, but Howard tried, anyway. He couldn't deal with this right now. He walked right past her, and it was disappointing but not surprising when she followed him down the hall. He stepped into one of the guest bedrooms, but didn't get the door closed fast enough; she slipped in behind him, blocking him in, and this room didn't have an adjoining bathroom in which to retreat further.

Howard sighed, steeling himself for the inevitable, and turned around. “What do you want, Maria?”

“Would you like to know where I was all morning?” she asked, her smile all teeth and anger. “I was with the Stanhopes, trying to explain to them why you never bothered to show up.”

It took Howard's brain a minute to process why that name would be important, filtering its way through the date and the social calendar he rarely paid attention to. Usually, if he had anything important scheduled, either Jarvis or his PA would remind him of it in the morning.

Except he hadn't spent the night at home, and he hadn't gone to work, so of course neither had been in a position to remind him today. Wonderful.

Maria crossed her arms, expression equal parts anger and disappointment, and Howard wasn't sure which hurt more. “Honestly, Howard, this brunch has been on your schedule for weeks now- how drunk did you get that you forgot about it?”

“I wasn't drunk.” Not that it wouldn't be a reasonable assumption, considering every time he spent the night at Obie's, Maria thought they were going out for drinks. She had no way of knowing that the alcohol he drank at home was all the alcohol he drank, period.

“Of course you weren't,” Maria said, rolling her eyes. “I suppose you were just _busy_.”

“Does it really matter?” Howard asked, sitting heavily on the bed. “I wasn't there. End of story. Nothing I say or do now is going to change that.”

“I don't know why I bother asking you for anything,” Maria bit out. “One thing. One brunch. One measly little favor, and not only can't you manage it, you don't even care. These are our neighbors, Howard. My friends. People I see every day. Their opinion of me _matters_.”

“And now they probably think you're a saint for putting up with me,” Howard said. “I fail to see how that's a bad thing for you.”

Maria threw her hands in the air, uttering some very unladylike words under her breath. “I give up. You can go crawl into a bottle and _rot_ for all I care, Howard- I'm done.”

She turned on her heel and managed to make storming out of a room and slamming the door elegant. Howard listened to the sound of her muffled footsteps fading down the hall and lied down carefully, not wanting to hurt his back further.

He'd have to apologize to the Stanhopes. They'd probably believe him if he claimed to have gotten caught up in work; Adam was the same way with his painting sometimes, so he'd understand at least.

Making it up to Maria would be harder. Expensive gifts were becoming less and less effective with her, and she never accepted verbal apologies, and frankly Howard did not have the brainpower to untangle how to please his wife right now. Right now, he just wanted to rest.

 

 

* * *

 

When Steve finally got back from errands, Bucky was waiting. Steve let him stall long enough to help put the groceries away, then sat him down at the tiny kitchen table and made him talk. Bucky related the whole thing and all his concerns, and Steve sat patiently through it without interrupting, then leaned across the table and took Bucky's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I can't say for sure without talking to him myself,” he said, “but I think from what you've told me that you might be right to be worried. Do you want me to stick close to the shop for the time being?”

Bucky nodded, leaning down and kissing Steve's knuckles. “Yeah. I might be being paranoid, but if I'm not...”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed.

“Oh, God,” a voice from the stairwell said. “Not where I _eat_ , you two!”

Bucky laughed in spite of himself, sitting up. Clint had only been their ward for about half a year, but Bucky already thought of him as part of the family, and enjoyed doing embarrassing parent things like PDA with Steve and dad jokes.

“How was school?” Steve asked, standing and moving to the fridge to make Clint an after-school snack.

“Peggy called me a kitten again,” Clint said, fidgeting with his backpack and not looking at either of them, which was a sure sign of trouble.

“Were you hissing at her?” Bucky asked, willing to play along for now.

“... Maybe.”

“You know she only calls you that because you insist on living up to the nickname, right?”

Clint grumbled something that Bucky was pretty sure wasn't even words, scowling.

“Now,” Steve said. “Leaving aside that master class in avoidance- how was school?”

“I may or may not have gotten into a fight,” Clint said, and Bucky groaned. “Hey, he started it! And I didn't even punch him all that hard!”

“Who did you punch and why?” Bucky demanded, wondering not for the first time how this had become their life.

“Some dumb senior,” Clint said, hunching in on himself defensively. “He wouldn't stop running his mouth.”

“What was he saying?”

“He called me stupider than a rock.”

“And?” Bucky pressed, because something that petty would never break Clint's temper.

“And he wouldn't stop!” Clint burst out, throwing his bag on the ground and spilling textbooks across the kitchen floor. “Every single time I see him he has to make some stupid crack about how dumb I am, and the teachers never fucking _do_ anything!”

“Language,” Steve warned automatically, bending down to pick up a notebook that had slid near his foot.

“Fuck language!” Clint snapped, stalking the short distance to the couch and throwing himself over the back, onto the cushions. “And fuck school, too!” he added. “I'm not going back, and you can't make me!”

Steve sighed, picking up scattered school supplies and setting them on the table. Bucky stood and walked to the couch, sitting on the arm. Clint continued to glare at the ceiling. He wasn't ignoring Bucky, he was still too fresh off the streets to not be hyper-aware of everyone around him, but Bucky let him have the illusion, at least. He waited, outwardly patient and inwardly trying to figure out how he'd become the one Clint was closer to.

After a few minutes Clint sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Just ask already.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since I started school again.”

“Is it just calling you dumb?” Bucky asked. “And when I say 'just', I'm not trying to downplay that, it's still shitty of them to do, but is there anything else?”

Clint shrugged, which was a pretty clear yes.

“Care to elaborate?”

A glare that was definitely a resounding no.

“Do it anyway, buddy,” Bucky said, reaching out very slowly and patting Clint's foot. It had taken him less than a month to learn that you never touched Clint without making your intention very clear and giving him plenty of time to stop you. “We need to know in order to take care of this.”

“Even if you deal with this asshole, another one's just gonna take his place.”

“Then we'll deal with that one, too,” Bucky said. “Come on. If not for yourself, do it for Bruce's peace of mind.”

Clint shot him a glare that might have killed a lesser man. “That's cheating.”

“Yeah, we cheat shamelessly for the sake of our loved ones around here,” Bucky agreed, grinning when Clint cracked a small smile. “Look, why don't you go to your nest, cool off a bit? We can talk more later.”

Clint nodded, sighing, and heaved himself off the couch. “Can I call Bruce?” he asked. “He doesn't work tomorrow.”

Bucky nodded. “Bruce is always welcome here,” he said. “I don't even have to check with Steve on that.”

Clint nodded again, making for his bedroom. Bucky sighed, sliding off the arm and onto the couch cushions. After a minute Steve joined him, wrapping an arm around Bucky's shoulders.

“This is the second time this semester he's been suspended for fighting,” Bucky said quietly. Clint's door was still open, since he'd be expecting Bruce, and Bucky didn't want him to overhear. “His case worker's gonna be riding our asses over this.”

“I know,” Steve said. “We'll figure something out. We won't let them take him away.”

Bucky nodded, relaxing against Steve until he dropped off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Tony knew that when Mom or Dad was sleeping, he was supposed to be real quiet and leave them alone until they woke up. Especially Dad, and especially especially when it was the middle of the day. Instead of doing what he was supposed to do, Tony pushed the door open a bit more and padded into the room as quiet as he could. As long as he didn't wake Dad up, it should be okay right?

Dad looked tired and icky. He wasn't even under the blanket like he was supposed to be. Maybe he should get Jarvis to come tuck Dad in like he did for Tony at night, except then Jarvis would know he wasn't leaving Dad alone like he was supposed to.

After a minute, Tony decided it was okay to not be under the blanket, since it was warm and Dad had all his clothes on. He didn't have to go get anyone. And, if he was really very careful... Dad wasn't easy to wake up, and there was lots of room on the bed next to him...

Tony shuffled a little closer to the bed, concentrating on not making noise, and almost made a lot of noise when someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. He managed not to, looking up at Jarvis.

“Mr. Stark is sleeping, young master,” Jarvis said, taking Tony's hand and tugging him gently toward the door. “Let's go down to the kitchen and see if there are cookies to be pilfered, shall we?”

Tony nodded, following Jarvis back out into the hallway. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, young master?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course,” Jarvis said, because Jarvis was just the best. He never said no, and he never told Tony's secrets to anyone.

“I don't think Dad likes me much anymore,” Tony confessed, gnawing absently on the collar of his shirt until Jarvis pulled it out of his mouth. “I mean, if he ever liked me. But I think if he never liked me, he woulda got rid of me by now.”

Jarvis stopped and knelt on the carpet so he wasn't all loom-y anymore and pushed Tony's bangs out of his eyes. “Why do you think that, young master?” he asked.

“Cause... he's never home anymore,” Tony said, shrugging. “And he's always fighting with Mom, and my friend Tammy said that if it was Mom Dad didn't like he'd just get a divorce thingy and never have to see her again, that's what her dad did. And Tammy's brother Joe says if Mom and Dad still are married and always fight it's probably 'cause of me, and I know Mom likes me, so Dad must not, right?”

Jarvis sighed and pulled Tony close into the kind of warm comfy hug Dad never gave him anymore. “Your father still loves you very much, Anthony,” he said. “I would stake my life on that, I promise you.”

Tony grabbed handfuls of Jarvis's nice clean shirt and buried his face against Jarvis's neck. Jarvis never ever lied to him even when the truth hurt or made him mad. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” Jarvis insisted. “Now, shall we go see about those cookies?”

Tony nodded, closing his eyes and letting Jarvis pick him up, even though he was a big boy and could walk by himself now. “Not too many, or we'll ruin my puh-tight.”

“Of course,” Jarvis said, sounding like he was smiling, and headed to the stairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from _Hand in My Pocket_ by Alanis Morissette.


	5. My Age has Never Made Me Wise

It took Bruce longer than he would have liked to get to Clint's. He supposed he should be grateful it didn't take even longer than it did, but Bruce had accepted years ago that logic and reason didn't have much of a voice when it came to anything connected to Clint.

He didn't have to bother with the back door, since the shop was still open. He waved to Mr. Wilson as he hurried across the room to the stairs, and he was comfortable enough with Steve and Bucky to ignore them completely and head straight for Clint's bedroom.

As bedrooms went, Clint's was probably about average. It was the same size as Bruce's entire loft, but then Bruce lived deeper in the city where anything bigger was just plain outside his budget. It had only been a few weeks since they'd moved in, so there wasn't much evidence that the room belonged to a teenager beyond the neat stack of textbooks and supplies on the desk by the window. The empty feeling wasn't helped by the fact that there was no bed.

Bruce set his bag down by the door and crossed to the ladder set against the wall, leading to Clint's nest.

Clint's nest had probably originally been intended as storage. It was four feet high, four feet deep, and six feet wide, set five or six feet above the floor and sunk into the wall. It was essentially a cave, overflowing with blankets and pillows. There was a mattress somewhere under there, and a thick security curtain with dozens of tiny bells sewn onto it. Clint was a light sleeper at the best of times, and the jingling set off by so much as twitching the curtain was enough to wake him. It was a mark of just how far Clint had come in his six months off the streets that the curtain was open, making it possible to bypass that last line of defense.

Clint was sitting in the far corner, half buried in a few of his favorite blankets. He looked up as Bruce hauled himself into the nest. He didn't smile.

“Hey,” Bruce said, crawling over to sit next to Clint. “Rough day?”

Clint nodded, dropping his gaze. For him not to even smile at Bruce and to be so quiet... the list of things that could be wrong was pretty short.

“Got suspended again?” Bruce guessed.

“M'sorry,” Clint said, staring hard at his hands in his lap.

“Did you get yourself suspended on purpose?”

“No!”

“Then you have no reason to be sorry,” Bruce said firmly.

“I'm gonna be even further behind,” Clint said, sighing and letting his head fall back against the wall with a soft thump. “I'm never gonna graduate at this rate.”

“Yes you will,” Bruce disagreed. Clint was much smarter than most people – including himself – gave him credit for. Considering the years of school he'd missed after running away, it was a wonder he was as caught up as he was.

But try telling Clint that.

Clint sighed again, letting himself slide sideways until his head rested on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce took Clint's nearer hand in his, holding it loosely, and closed his eyes. As was usually the case, Clint seemed to just need Bruce nearby- Bruce didn't have work in the morning, and he'd brought along his things just in case, so he could stay as long as Clint needed him.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve closed the door to Clint's room quietly more out of habit than any illusion he could possibly keep the boys from hearing it. They'd both been wary and over-alert since he'd met them, years ago when Clint was still in his old foster home and they'd spent almost every afternoon at the rec center where Steve volunteered. Even though Bruce was living on his own now and had a job and everything, Steve couldn't help but think of him as a shy twelve-year-old with books too advanced for Steve and curls falling in his eyes. His mental image of Clint was still wounded and wary, soaked to the bone and hissing at Peggy for calling him kitten.

His boys.

Bucky came up behind Steve, wrapping his arms around Steve's waist and pressing against his back, kissing his spine just above his shirt collar. “Hey,”

“Hey,” Steve replied. “Did I wake you up?”

Bucky hummed, resting his head against Steve's shoulder. “My furnace left.”

Steve laughed, twisting around so he could put his arms around Bucky. “Is that all I am to you?”

“Damn straight,” Bucky said grinning. “You looked lost in thought, Furnace- what's on your mind?”

“Just remembering the night you brought Clint home,” he said. “That was an adventure.”

Bucky groaned, dropping his arms and slipping out of Steve's hold. “You are literally the only involved party who thinks that,” he said, grabbing Steve's hand and tugging him back toward the couch.

“Peggy thinks that, too.”

“Peggy wasn't an involved party, she was a bystander. She didn't get kicked in the face.”

“She also didn't hold Clint until he finally fell asleep, then spend the whole night on the floor in case moving woke him up,” Steve pointed out, letting Bucky push him onto the couch and straddle his lap.

“Don't ruin my sulk,” Bucky said, kissing him.

“I,” Steve told him, kissing back, “Will ruin your sulk if I want to. So there.”

“Aren't you supposed to be the mature one?” Bucky asked.

“Only on weekdays between the hours of seven and four.”

“It's half past three on a Friday,” Bucky pointed out.

“I'm taking a sick day,” Steve said, grinning when Bucky rolled his eyes and lightly punched him in the shoulder.

“Punk,” Bucky accused.

“Jerk,” Steve responded automatically.

They lapsed into silence, Steve watching Bucky try to stare a hole through the couch next to his head. Steve let him, figuring Bucky would snap out of it in a minute or two, apologize for getting lost in thought, punch Steve again for making a tired joke about unfamiliar territory, and they'd go from there.

About ten minutes later, Steve moved his hands to Bucky's hips, holding him in place when he jumped. “You okay in there?”

Bucky blinked down at him a few times, then sighed, nodding. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry. Didn't mean to zone out on you.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Bucky shook his head, biting absently at his bottom lip.

“Do you want to switch down?” Steve asked quietly, rubbing gentle circles into Bucky's hip with his thumb.

While both of them identified pretty firmly as Doms, they had both found that subbing could be good for them. They didn't actually go down the way a sub did, more acted out the part, but it still helped. Overstressed, thinking too hard, or just needing to get away from responsibility for a while, they both did it from time to time. It had been a long while since the last time Bucky had wanted to switch down, but maybe after the past couple days, he needed it.

Bucky looked thoughtful for a minute, then shook his head, sighing. He'd been sighing a lot today. “I don't think I could manage it right now.”

“Do you want _me_ to switch down?” He didn't really feel the need to, but he could, and he was certain Bucky would make it enjoyable. He always had in the past. And if it helped Bucky settle...

Bucky huffed, kissing Steve lightly. “Thanks for the offer, lover, but I think I'd rather just sleep for a bit.”

“You just slept,” Steve objected, frowning. Bucky enjoyed a good nap as much as the next person, but for him to want to go back to sleep already wasn't really normal.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. It's- a lot's happened today. My mind needs the break. Wake me up for dinner?”

“Of course,” Steve said, stealing one last kiss before Bucky got up and wandered off into their bedroom, leaving Steve to occupy himself until dinnertime.

 

* * *

 

Howard slept fitfully through the afternoon and into the evening. It seemed like his back protested every time he so much as twitched, so every shift in position woke him back up. After a couple of hours, he just gave up on the whole concept of sleep and forced himself to sit up slowly. By the way his shirt was pulling at his back, some of the welts must have opened while he was trying to sleep. Taking his shirt off meant breaking them open again, but he couldn't very well walk around the house in a bloody shirt. And cleaning it up himself would be impossible.

His back was stiff, and pain sparked along it every time he moved. He carefully shrugged off his jacket, biting back a whimper as the pain blossomed into a steady pulsing throb, then sat on the edge of the bed staring at the guest room carpet, trying to figure out what to do next.

A polite knock at the doorway brought his head back up after a minute. Jarvis stood in the hallway, like some sort of comic book hero who'd sensed he was needed.

“Are you feeling well, sir?” Jarvis asked gently.

“Fine,” Howard said automatically, and Jarvis was too professional to call him out on lying through his teeth. He didn't have to, because Howard was only human. He wasn't made of iron. He was flesh and bone and hurting and weak, and if he couldn't trust Jarvis, what was the point of the human race? “Bring me a clean shirt and a first aid kit.”

Jarvis didn't waste time with questions Howard couldn't answer. He nodded once and vanished, returning in what felt like seconds with a shirt and tie over one arm and a first aid kit in his other hand.

“Come in and close the door,” Howard instructed. Jarvis obeyed, watching him expectantly, and Howard only hesitated a moment before continuing. “Don't ask questions, just...” It went against every ingrained instinct he had, but he turned so that Jarvis could see his back. “Help me.”

There was a pause, during which Howard worried Jarvis was going to ask questions, anyway, or insist he needed to go to the hospital, or call his personal physician, but then the bed dipped behind him and Jarvis was reaching around him to unbutton his shirt. Howard tried not to lean into his presence.

Jarvis stripped his shirt in silence, setting it aside. His fingers were light and cool as he cleaned and tended to Howard's back in silence, careful never to apply too much pressure while he worked. He bandaged the worst of it in silence, and helped Howard into the new shirt in silence. Not even Jarvis could quiet the questions in his eyes, but Howard could ignore them as long as they weren't asked out loud.

“Will you be attending dinner, sir?” Jarvis asked.

Howard shook his head immediately. Maria always ate dinner with Tony, and he couldn't face her. Not yet. “Bring something down to the workshop later,” he said. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well be working.

Jarvis nodded, collecting the trash, bloody shirt, and kit, and left. Howard took a deep breath to collect himself, then left as well, heading in the opposite direction. He had some ideas on how to improve the standard issues assault rifles, and he was fairly certain there was a full bottle of scotch in his workshop, too.

 

* * *

 

Steve had just started making dinner when the phone rang. He picked it up absently, still sorting ingredients with one hand. “Hello?”

“Run away with me, stud- our boyfriends will never find us, I promise.”

Steve smiled, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder and opening the fridge. “Do you even know which one this is?”

“I'm not picky.”

“I'm telling Sam you said that,” Steve warned, getting out the big pot, since Bruce would probably be staying for dinner, and Steve wanted leftovers to give him for later, anyway.

“He isn't picky, either,” Natasha said lightly. “He'll just comfort whoever's left behind.”

Steve laughed. “I don't think Sam is built to handle Bucky,” he said. “Sorry, but we'll just have to be content with what we have.”

“So mean,” Natasha teased. “What are you up to?”

“Planning world domination,” Steve said, sighing. “Once I run the planet, they won't be able to suspend my son unless I let them.”

“Ouch,” Natasha said. “Again?”

“Yeah. Apparently bullying is only bullying if it's physical.”

“I can attempt tutoring again,” Natasha offered, even though her last attempt at tutoring Clint had ended after less than ten minutes, with both of them frustrated and swearing at each other.

“I'm almost desperate enough to take you up on that, you know,” he said hunting up where Bucky had hidden the cutting board. “But enough of my domestic bliss. How's the new job? Is your boss nice?”

“My boss never bothered to show,” Natasha said, sighing. Steve could hear rustling paper in the background. “Not only did he not come into work, but he had an engagement with his wife that he also missed, and I got to get yelled at for it.”

Steve hissed sympathetically. He'd spent enough time in customer service to know how that felt. “So, not the most auspicious first day?”

“No, not really,” she agreed. “I realize he's rich and all and doesn't actually _have_ to show up every day, but it would have been nice to at least meet the guy. He can't be worse than his CFO. That guy is an outright creep. I'm going to eat my weight in scones I stole from you this morning.”

“I'll put them on your tab,” Steve said, smiling. “I'm sure you'll pay it off someday.”

Natasha snorted. “And how are things over there? Sam behaving himself?”

“Yeah- he put in a few hours, but we kicked him out once Peggy showed. If he's not home by midnight, it's not our fault.”

“If he's not home by midnight, he won't get any scones,” Natasha said brightly. “You making dinner?”

“Just got started on it, yeah.”

“I'll let you go, then,” Natasha said. “I have to work tomorrow whether the boss is in or not, and I've got romcoms to watch.”

“Just make sure to eat some actual food with those scones,” Steve said, laughing at the rude suggestion Natasha made in return. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she said, making exaggerated kissing noises before hanging up.

Steve hung up as well, turning toward the sink. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce slip out of Clint's bedroom, followed by Clint himself. They made for the couch, turning on the television but keeping the volume low. Steve refocused on dinner, smiling to himself. He'd worry about Clint being suspended later; for now, he wanted to enjoy some of that domestic bliss he was telling Natasha about.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Nothing Left to Say_ by Imagine Dragons.


	6. Whispers and Lies That I'll Never Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? It's not like I haven't updated this story in for-freaking-ever or anything, right? Why are you looking at me like that?

Howard was in no way obligated to go in on Saturdays.  No one would raise an eyebrow if even _he_ took a weekend off now and again.  He still tended to think of Saturday as part of the work week, however, because it made a handy excuse to not be at home or around Maria.  He was also keen to avoid Jarvis, at least for a few days- Jarvis was a competent butler mainly because he had ways of convincing Howard to do things that were good for him, but he didn't actually want to do.  After last night, he needed to give Jarvis time to find other things to worry about.

He didn't stop to actually think about where to stop for coffee.  The way to his old regular shop was clear at last, but he only noted it in passing as he headed straight for the new place.  He told himself it was just that the coffee was better and the service faster, and his liking for the place had nothing at all to do with the fact that, as soon as he stepped through the door, a deep-rooted tension inside him eased, just a little.

Neither the dark-haired young man nor the British woman was manning the counter today.  In their place was a blond man with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles under his slightly too small shirt.  He was easily as tall as Obi and in much better shape, and Howard almost walked right back out.

Before he could turn and make a run for it, though, the man looked up.  His bright blue eyes landed on Howard, and he smiled.

It was one of those bright, open smiles that made you want to believe in the inherent goodness of mankind.  A smile that said this man rescued kittens, helped little old ladies cross the street, volunteered on weekends, and would be despondent if he _upset_ someone, much less _hurt_ them.  Despite all his efforts to resist, Howard felt himself relaxing under that smile.

“Morning, sir,” the man said brightly.  “What can I get for you?”

Left with no graceful way to escape, Howard straightened his spine, ignored the twinge in his back, and walked to the counter.  “Get me a large black and two danishes.  I don't care what flavor.”

“Coming right up,” he said, still smiling.  “Everything’s apple today- hope that’s okay.”

Howard nodded, leaning his hip against the counter and turning slightly to survey the rest of the cafe.

He seemed to be the only person here in a suit, or over the age of thirty.  The low table and overstuffed couch in the corner had been taken over by a couple of teenagers, one sandy blond and the other with thick dark curls.  The table was loaded with empty plates and coffee cups between textbooks, notebooks, binders, and a single ancient laptop that had to be at least ten years old and probably weighed twenty pounds.  The sight of it offended Howard on a deep, almost spiritual level.  It belonged in a _museum_ , not in _use_.  He had to admire anyone who actually managed to work on such an antique.

The barista set down his coffee and a pastry bag and gave him his total, and Howard found himself leaving twice that in the tip jar, much to the barista’s delight, and made his escape before he went over and personally tossed that laptop in the trash.

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha had only been at her desk for twenty minutes when Mr. Stark came through the door with a cup of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten pastry in the other.  She wasn’t all that surprised to see him- office gossip yesterday had indicated he was a bit of a workaholic, and that his not coming in on a Friday was highly unusual.

“Good morning, Mr. Stark,” she said at her most professional.

“Good morning, Eve- who are you?”

“Evelina tendered her resignation last week.  I’m Natasha, her replacement.”

Mr. Stark frowned for a moment, then his expression cleared to something more neutral.“Is Mr. Stane in?”

“No, Mr. Stark.  He has a lunch appointment with Mrs. Bachman regarding a possible purchase of your latest body armor designs, then a golf outing with Senator Stern.”

Mr. Stark nodded, finishing off his pastry and taking a long drink of coffee.  “Bring whatever I missed yesterday to my office,” he said.  “And find out who’s working R&D today.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark,” she said.  He was already past her desk and into his office by the time she’d finished, which honestly didn’t bother her.  Better being ignored than being hit on by a man she couldn’t put through a window if she wanted to keep this job.

There were a few reports that needed Mr. Stark’s signature, a handful of complaints that needed his personal attention, and one sealed envelope Mr. Stane had left on his way out yesterday.  She gathered them all up, checked who’d clocked in in Research and Development, then knocked politely on Mr. Stark’s door before letting herself in.

Mr. Stark was sitting at his desk frowning at his computer screen.  He didn’t look up or in any way acknowledge her.  He was strangely focused, considering he’d only had two minutes at most to get absorbed in whatever he was doing.

Natasha placed the stack of papers, envelope on top, on the corner of his desk and stepped back, clearing her throat.

Mr. Stark jumped, jerking back in his chair, then winced as if he’d hurt himself.  He recovered quickly, though, and if she hadn’t seen his initial reaction, even she might have been fooled by the polite mask of mild annoyance he threw on to cover it.

“Fitz and Mackenzie are in R&D today,” she reported.  “There’s also a letter from Mr. Stane- he said it wasn’t urgent.”

“Thank you, Natasha,” Mr. Stark said, reaching immediately for the letter.  “You can go.”  She could be mistaken, but she could swear he seemed nervous.

“Of course, Mr. Stark.  I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

He nodded absently, staring at the letter, but hadn’t opened it by the time she’d stepped out and closed the office door.

Her new boss was officially weird.

 

* * *

 

 

Obi’s letter was… not as bad as Howard had been expecting.  It wasn’t _good_ by any means, but once he’d finished reading it he was ashamed of how anxious he’d let himself get.  He should have known Obi would deliver any truly bad news in person, not leave it overnight for a stranger to give to him.

Still, he was lucky Natasha wasn’t the type to ‘screen’ her boss’s incoming mail.  Notifying Howard he was taking an unexpected trip was innocent enough, but _I’ll bring you some gifts we can enjoy together_ was very hard to _not_ take the wrong way.  Or right way, depending on how you looked at it.

A week.  Obi was leaving for a week.  And Natasha hadn’t known, which meant it wasn’t on behalf of the company, which meant it was probably something to do with Obi’s ex-wife or one of his current lovers.

(It didn’t hurt that Obi needed other outlets.  He understood.  Obi was straight.  He couldn’t expect fidelity.  It was perfectly fine.)

Hopefully it was a current lover.  Obi always came back from dealing with his ex in a foul mood.  He didn’t need even more bruises to try and hide from Jarvis.

Howard sighed, slipping the letter and the envelope it had come in into the paper shredder.  He still had work to do, and he had a week to figure out how to deal with Obi when he got back.

 Clearing his desk took only an hour.  Howard spent two hours in R&D going over current projects before his back began to hurt too much to concentrate, then called it a day.  He sent Natasha home, then climbed into his car and headed out of the city.

Maria was not the sort of woman to be pacified with flowers.  She found Howard’s taste in art lacking at best, and wouldn’t stand for him trying to dress her.  She already had access to his bank account, so cold hard cash was pointless as well, and she already took plenty of vacations.  That left really only one way to appease her: jewelry.

If Howard were an idiot, there was a fine jeweler in town.  Several, in fact.  Some of them even did custom work.  Maria considered them soulless.  He’d made that mistake once and only once, and he wouldn’t do it again.

There was an estate dealer 60 miles outside the city limits who generally carried things acceptable to Maria’s refined tastes.  The drive was something like torture, given the state of his back, but he’d survived worse.

The owner herself, a refined young woman by the name of Janet, met him at the door, like she usually did.  They made small talk and pretended she didn’t know perfectly well he was only here because he’d pissed his wife off again as they walked.

The warehouse - they called it a showroom, but it was a warehouse - was huge, divided into sections by wide carpeted walkways.  Each carefully arranged square of polished concrete held a different sort of ware: an Edwardian bedroom set, a lovingly restored fortepiano, a Jensen Interceptor he made a note to come back for once he had the time.  Artwork, original paintings and statuary mainly, tended to be kept more toward the walls.

Their destination was more what Howard would consider a proper showroom.  It was separated from the main floor by ornate wooden screens hand-painted probably sometime before Howard had been born.  The lighting was brighter, with nothing that could be faded or damaged by it.  The floor was hardwood instead of concrete.  There were more employees as well, and there was far less separation of the merchandise.

“We’ve just had some lovely items come in,” Janet said brightly.  “Some of it was clearly imitation, but several genuine pieces were included.  18th century French.”

Howard nodded.  He couldn’t tell 18th century French from 20th century Spanish, and frankly he didn’t care.  Just as long as it was old, pretty, and satisfied Maria.

They were halfway down an aisle of display cases, Janet still talking up what were probably the most expensive items she had right now, when something shimmering in the corner of his eye drew his attention.  It was a brooch, gold, set with several large round stones that seemed to shift color as he tilted his head, white and pale pink and flecks of blue and green.  It was in the shape of a flower, a large white stone in the center and three smaller stones in each narrow gold petal, with small green ones set in between.  It was minimalistic and oddly compelling.

“Now that is a lovely piece,” Janet said.  She was a good businesswoman, and knew when someone was interested and when it wasn’t worth trying to redirect them.  “Crystal opal and demantoid garnet, set in 18-carat gold.  Victorian.  It would take a special lady to wear it, but if I know Mrs. Stark, she can more than manage.”

“I’m certain she can,” Howard agreed.  The display case in which the brooch rested held several other pieces with the same cloudy white stones, including a necklace of… 25 of them, 24 small and one much larger in the center.  It… actually took his breath away.  He’d never seen anything quite so stunning outside of a workshop before.

Janet laughed, but not cruelly.  “I have a feeling we’ve found today’s purchase,” she noted.  When Howard tore himself away from the necklace, she was smiling almost sympathetically.  “They’re lovely stones.”

“They are.  The brooch and that necklace.”

The young woman behind the display nodded, sliding the case open and carefully lifting out both items, while Howard tried not to be mesmerized again.  “Would you like anything else, sir?”

Howard started to shake his head, which allowed him to spot a ring, set by itself in the corner.  The stones had the same shimmering quality to them, but the colors were decidedly more pink, and they were arranged on the intricate gold band like tiny flowers, each centered on an equally small diamond.  “That ring, too.”

Janet laughed again.  “Is this you first time seeing opals in person?” she asked curiously.  “I haven’t seen you this star-struck since we had that Eldorado in last year.”

“They’re… striking.”

“I should make sure to inform you if we ever get some fire opals,” she said, taking the box from the employee and pressing it into Howard’s hands.  “I think they’d appeal to you.”

“Yes, that sounds good,” Howard said, nodding again.  “Just charge me.  Thank you, Janet.”

“A pleasure as always, Mr. Stark,” Janet assured him, accompanying him back through the warehouse to the door.

Howard was in the car and halfway back to the city before it occurred to him that just because he apparently turned into a seabird at the sight of opals didn’t mean Maria would like them.  But he was tired, his back hurt, and there was always a chance she _would_ like them, right?

 

* * *

 

 

He’d gone from tired to exhausted by the time he made it home, and it seemed to take all his remaining energy to climb out of the car.  He could leave the box on Maria’s nightstand and find a bed to collapse into.  Obi was out of town for a week, so he could sleep in tomorrow.  That would be nice.

The foyer was empty when he reached it and dragged himself up the staircase, but he was nearly bowled over as soon as he hit the second floor.

“Dad!” Tony yelled, in that excited overly-loud way children had.  “Dad, guess what, I made a robot, it’s really cool, it moves and everything, d’ya wanna-”

“Not now, Tony,” Howard said, sighing.  His head was starting to hurt.  “Go show your mother- I’m sure she’ll love it.”  Maria loved everything Tony did.

“Oh.  Okay.  Sorry I bugged you.”

“I’ll look later, okay?” Howard promised.

“Okay,” Tony repeated, rocking back on his heels before turning and dashing back down the hall.

“Sir?”

In his own home and with no witnesses, Howard felt safe giving vent to a heavy sigh.  Of course Jarvis would find him now.

“Sir, are you alright?”

“Just tired,” Howard said, holding out the box of jewelry that might or might not buy him peace for a few days.  “I’m going to bed- make sure Maria gets this.”

Jarvis took the box and tucked it under his arm, nodding.  “If you have the time, sir,” he said, completely poker-faced, “I would like to check on the issue we discussed last night.”

Howard nodded.  He hadn’t really expected Jarvis to forget that quickly, even if part of him had hoped.  “I’ve got no plans for the rest of the day,” he admitted.

“Then if you’d come with me, sir?”

Howard nodded again, following Jarvis down the hall, to the same guest room as yesterday.  Jarvis had apparently already guessed he could get Howard to do anything, because there was a first aid kit and a clean shirt waiting neatly on the bed.  Howard stripped to the waist and sat on the bed without being told.

Obi didn’t clean Howard up very often- mostly it had happened early in their relationship, when Obi had been learning how to give Howard what he needed and Howard hadn’t been used to getting it.  Whenever Obi had drawn blood or Howard had been too weak or shaky after a session to do it himself, Obi had wiped him down and bandaged him if he really needed it.  He’d been pretty much expecting the same from Jarvis.  Maybe not so rough, but still.

He wasn’t even close.  The two were in completely different leagues of interaction.  Howard didn’t have words to express the vast gulf of difference.

Because where Obi would just wipe up blood and stick a bandage on the worst of it, Jarvis cleaned his back thoroughly and gently, taking the time to apply some sort of topical treatment to what felt like each and every welt and bruise.  He didn’t complain about having to waste time.  He asked, repeatedly, if he was hurting Howard.

It made him feel calm and loose, in a way he almost never managed to feel, even with Obi.  It made him want to lie down, close his eyes, and purr.  It made him-

Fuck.

It was making him hard.

Shit.  He was not getting an _erection_ because his butler was being _nice_ to him.  He was not.  That was beyond pathetic, even for him.  This could _not_ be happening.

Thankfully, if he noticed – and there was a very good chance he did, Jarvis noticed everything – Jarvis kept it to himself, blotting up the last excess whatever and setting to bandaging.

“These appear to be healing quite nicely,” Jarvis commented as if nothing was wrong.  “They should require bandages for a few days more at most.”

Howard nodded, forcing his shoulders down and into at least a passable imitation of relaxed and trying to will his hard-on away.

“I would like to attend to them again tomorrow,” Jarvis continued as he finished and began packing up the first aid kit.

“You don’t need to do that,” Howard protested.

“I would like to all the same,” Jarvis replied, politely implacable.  “I will keep quiet, and I won’t press you for details, but please- let me take care of you.  For my peace of mind, if no other reason.”

The other thing that made Jarvis so good at his job was that it was damned near impossible to argue with him.  Howard found himself nodding before he even realized he’d given up.  “Alright.  If it means so much to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jarvis said, standing.  “You should rest.  I’ll be certain Mrs. Stark receives her gift.”

Howard let himself fall face-down on the bed, then let Jarvis rearrange him so he was under the covers.  By the time Jarvis left the room, closing the door softly behind him, Howard was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an AU where Howard never hooked up with Obi, Jarvis becomes his Dom. Trufax.
> 
> Chapter title comes from _I'm Still Here_ by Johnny Rzeznik.


	7. Something's Not Right When There Ain't Nothing Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *aggressively refuses to acknowledge this story hasn't been updated since 2015* >.>

Howard somehow managed to get a decent night’s sleep.  He wasn’t entirely sure if it was because of Jarvis or the prospect of not seeing Obi for a week, and he wasn’t too keen to examine which.  He instead concentrated on being grateful for it, and for the extra hour he slept past when he usually woke on Sundays.

He had nothing scheduled for today.  With Obi out of town, he didn’t even have anything social to do.  The only thing keeping him from pulling the covers over his head and going back to sleep was his own restlessness, and it still took nearly half an hour to force himself to sit up.

Jarvis had once again left him his toiletries and a clean outfit, so Howard hauled himself out of bed and got changed, leaving yesterday’s suit in a heap on the unmade bed.  It was no secret among the staff that Howard only rarely slept in the master suite- someone would be in to take care of the mess later.

He had to go to another guest room to shave and make himself presentable, but that was also a regular occurrence, to the point there was even a bottle of cologne waiting on the counter.  Not his usual, but not unpleasant, so he put it on- he had no idea which guest bathroom his usual was in, anyway, and he didn’t feel like going looking.  He didn’t feel like much of anything, honestly- he didn’t even feel all that much like _working_.  He couldn’t recall the last time he didn’t even want to work.

Lacking anything else to do, Howard settled for wandering the mansion.  He’d spent a small fortune on updating it after his parents had died, but rarely saw anything other than the dining room, the guest rooms, and his workshop.  There were rooms in it he probably hadn’t seen since he was Tony’s age, and three full floors to wander should keep him occupied for at least a little while.

He hadn’t realized he was anywhere near the music room until he heard a series of soft, slow notes, not in any discernible melody, drifting through the open doorway.  He slowed, not wanting to disturb whoever it was, and peeked around the doorjamb.

Maria sat at the grand piano, idly tapping at the keys.  She’d played often when they were first married, when Howard was still putting some effort into maintaining at least the illusion of a functioning relationship.  By now, he’d all but forgotten she even knew how.

Maria sighed, touching the keys with more purpose. “I can smell you from here,” she said without turning around.

“It’s a very strong cologne,” Howard said with a shrug, leaning against the doorframe.  Maybe if he just let her get it out of her system, it would make her feel better.  Even if he left, she’d probably just follow him.

Maria hummed noncommittally, sitting straighter and beginning to play an actual song.  She wasn’t wearing much in the way of jewelry today- the morning sunlight caught on only a few thin bracelets and a single ring, opal and diamond flowers on an intricate gold band.  Just like they had yesterday, the stones caught and held his attention, sparkling and shifting their colors as her hand skimmed along the keys.

“You’ve never worn it before,” she said at length, drawing his attention back to her.

“What?”

“That cologne.  You’ve never worn it before.”

“And you pay so much attention to my cologne?” Howard challenged.

Maria’s hands stilled, and she finally turned to look at him, her expression coolly reproachful.  “I bought that cologne for you,” she informed him.  “I would notice if you’d worn it before now.”

“Oh.”  There was really nothing else to say to that.  Maria still gave him gifts for his birthday and Christmas, but he’d stopped paying attention to them at about the same time he’d stopped listening to her play.  He had to wonder why she was still married to him at all.

Maria turned back to the piano and resumed playing.  “What do you want, Howard?”

“Nothing.  I just- I haven’t heard you play for… a long while.”

“You haven’t exactly been here to hear it,” she pointed out, surprisingly neutrally.

“No, I guess I haven’t.”

Sadly, this was probably the most civil conversation they’d had in years.  Neither of them was shouting, at least, which was a vast improvement over their usual interactions.

Maria continued to play, changing songs.  Howard stayed in the doorway, just listening for now- she was as skilled as he remembered.

“You’re wearing the ring,” he said, after several minutes of surprisingly comfortable silence filled only by the piano.

Maria nodded.  “It’s… appealingly whimsical.  Not what I would expect of you.”

“But you like it?”

“I wouldn’t be wearing it if I didn’t, Howard.”

“I’m glad.”  And he was.  It wasn’t just that he’d finally managed to get something right, though that was a large part of it- he knew being married to him was no picnic, and he was glad she had at least one thing from him she didn’t hate.

They lapsed back into that comfortable silence; he stood there in the doorway and listened to Maria play, until Tony thundered down the stairs for whatever he and Maria normally did on Sundays.

Howard took that as his exit cue and headed for his workshop.

 

* * *

 

Steve was… depressingly familiar with the layout of Clint’s school.  The office wasn’t right by the main entrance, but rather buried more toward the back of the building, by the tiny gymnasium, and he made straight for it.  He’d been here so often that several students greeted him by name as he made the trek to the office door and let himself in.

The receptionist, as familiar with him as the students, barely glanced up from her ancient computer before waving him toward the inner office and the drab little conference room.

The vice-principal and one of the school counselors were waiting for him at the wobbly, scarred table with its six uncomfortable, thinly-padded chairs.

“Good morning, Mr. Rogers,”  the vice-principal said, sitting gingerly in one of the chairs and gesturing for Steve and the counselor to sit as well.  They both did with equal care, well aware that the chairs were probably older than them and could collapse under a moderately strong sneeze.

Vice-Principal Lillian Young was a woman in her 50s or 60s, thin and all angles in a way that reminded Steve of himself when he was a kid.  Despite being old enough to have grandchildren, she still seemed to have an unfinished quality to her, as if she just needed a few more years to grow into herself.

The counselor, Greg Millican, was 30-something and already well into going grey, a little chunky around the middle from too much sitting at a desk and not enough get up and go.  He gave an impression of someone with far too many concerns and not enough time or fucks for all of them.

“I think we all know why we’re here today,” Greg said with an admirable attempt at a smile.  “So let’s get right down to it, shall we?”

Steve nodded, settling his weight in his chosen chair.  These meetings tended to run long, and he didn’t want to start fidgeting uncomfortably halfway through.  Vice-Principal Young took fidgeting as a sign of disrespect.

Greg sighed, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.  “I’m getting more concerned about Clint’s behaviour. He’s been involved in several incidents since the last time you and I met; not enough for suspension, but it throws up some red flags for me.”

“He’s told me about those, yes,” Steve allowed.

“So then he’s told you about leaving classes in the middle of the period?”  Ms. Young interjected.  “Damaging another student’s locker?  Having lost several textbooks, resulting in him not being prepared for class?”

Steve did his best not to scowl and keep his voice level when he replied,  “He told me that he’s left classes early when the teacher has ignored other students harassing him, and that one day he punched a locker so that he wouldn’t punch a person, and that he’s had three of his textbooks stolen and that there are no more to issue him new ones, meaning he is unable to be prepared for class. My partner and I have done what we can -”

“I have no reason to believe he’s had books stolen-” Young objected, but Steve plowed right over her.

“ _\- have done what we can_ to help him, but it’s been a while since either of us were in high school, and there have been more roadblocks than bridges when we’ve tried to get help from you.”

Ms. Young smiled like she was about to announce Steve had won the lottery.  “That’s what this meeting is about,” she insisted. “Mr Millican and I have brainstormed some ideas for things that we think could help Clint.”

A quick glance at Greg made it plain that, whatever Ms. Young claimed, Mr. Millican wanted no part of these ideas and probably hadn’t been involved in the brainstorming at all.  That did not bode well.

“One of Clint’s teachers thinks he may have a learning disability; if he were assessed, he could be placed in the special education classes, which would let him have more one-on-one time with a faculty member. He could also be placed on what would amount to an indefinite in-school suspension, but it would in essence allow him to work at his own pace without the concern of his altercations with other students.”

Steve was pretty sure his blood was literally starting to boil.  He kept his mouth shut, since blowing up at the vice-principal was going to do far more harm than good, and settled for letting control of his scowl slip instead.

“I,” Greg said, stressing the pronoun just barely enough to be noticable, “think it would be helpful for Clint to see someone that can help him process his feelings about his experiences over the last few years, and the changes that have happened in his life. I know he ran away; that kind of upheaval can be its own kind of trauma, and he may need more help processing that than you and your partner are able to give.”

“Clint’s already seeing a therapist.”

“Forgive my bluntness, Mr. Rogers, but it’s obviously not helping at school.  What I have in mind is a bit different.  See, there’s this outreach program that-”

Ms. Young sighed like it was _her_ time being wasted.  “A program for _homeless children_ , which Clint obviously is _not_.  We discussed this already, Mr. Millican.”

Greg rested his hands on top of his folder. “It was an idea, Ms. Young.”

“It doesn’t address the issue at hand: Clint’s behaviour. Losing school property, disrespecting his teachers, shouting at other students and damaging school property. Surely you agree this is becoming a problem.”

“I do,” Steve said.  “So when is the faculty going to actually do something about Clint being bullied?”

Ms. Young scoffed.  “Mr. Rogers, a little teasing is-”

“If you’re going to finish that sentence with ‘not bullying’,” Steve said flatly, “you can just stop right now and save yourself the breath.”

Ms. Young could not have looked more offended if Steve had physically slapped her.

“I think we’re done here,” he continued, standing.  “Have a nice day.”

Ms. Young found new heights of scandalized to rise to as Steve turned toward the door; he took a slightly guilty pleasure in her resemblance to a beached fish.

Greg stood as well, gathering his things.  “I’ll walk you out, Mr. Rogers,” he offered, probably as eager to be away from Ms. Young as Steve was.

They walked in silence down the hall - mostly empty now that class had started - until they reached the front doors.  There Greg stopped, fidgeting with his folder, and sighed.  “I’m sorry, Steve,” he said.  “I wish I could do more for Clint, but...”

“I get it,” Steve assured him.  He’d jumped at the chance to be his own boss for a reason, and none of his bad bosses had been as obstructionist as Vice-Principal Young.  “Thanks for trying, at least.”

“I can try a bit more today,” Greg said with a slight smile, pulling a piece of paper out of his folder.  “Ms. Young was right in that the program is mainly for homeless youth, but they do take recommendations from other child services, and they also work with formerly homeless and at-risk youth.  Given Clint’s distrust of… let’s call them ‘adulty’ adults, I really think this is the best option for him.  Please at least give them a look.”

“I will,” Steve promised, taking the paper.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  Clint’s got a good thing with you and James, and I’d hate to see him lose it because Ms. Young doesn’t believe in trauma.  I have to get back to work.  Give Clint and James my best.”

“I will,” Steve promised again, tucking the paper into his pocket.  He watched Greg head back toward the office before stepping outside, feeling much better than he usually did after these meetings.  The meeting itself may have been the usual bust, but at least they had something new to try.

 

* * *

  

By Tuesday, Howard’s back no longer needed bandages.  By Wednesday, Jarvis was certain there wouldn’t even be any scars.  By Thursday, Howard suspected he didn’t really need the nightly doctoring anymore, but couldn’t bring himself to put an end to it.  Despite certain humiliating physical responses that _would not stop happening_ , he caught himself looking forward to getting home in the evening so Jarvis could tend to him.  As long as Jarvis didn’t say anything, Howard wouldn’t, either.

Work went equally well in that time.  Natasha was calm, smoothly professional, not given to flirting, and so unobtrusive that Howard entertained (though not with any seriousness) the notion she might be a spy of some sort.  She settled in quickly, and Howard had no trouble getting used to her at all.

If Howard were to be honest with himself, it was one of the best weeks he’d had in years.  But, as previously established, Howard was never honest with himself if he could help it, so he settled simply for enjoying the week and not looking too closely at why it was so enjoyable to begin with.

He continued using the new coffee place.  There seemed to be an inordinate number of employees for such a small shop; the intense-eyed young man who’d been working his first visit, the Adonis with the kind smile, the stunningly beautiful British lady, a young black man it was impossible to feel uncomfortable around, and once the two teenagers who seemed to live in the corner of the shop with the ancient laptop that hurt Howard’s soul to look at.

The shop - named _Sarah’s_ after the owner’s late mother - quickly became as much a home as his workshop.  He actually felt comfortable enough to sit and savor the coffee and ridiculously good pastries.

Life was going so well that he forgot to be anxious about Obi coming back next week.

 

* * *

 

The first time Natasha heard Howard Stark swear, he was standing in the copy room with his jacket hanging from a file cabinet and his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, glaring at the printer as if its very existence offended him on a deep spiritual level.

Natasha was already intimately familiar with this printer.  It was a temperamental beast that required careful handling, like a cranky toddler with a cold who - if you used just the right words and moved in exactly the right way - would accept its medicine.  Natasha already knew all its secrets; Mr. Stark obviously did not, and now it was beeping angrily at him as if the spiritual offense was mutual.

“Something wrong, Mr. Stark?”

Mr. Stark glanced over his shoulder at her, sighing.  “I’m going to take a break from weapons,” he told her, sounding completely serious, “to rebuild printing technology from the ground up, because this is unacceptable.”

“Here,” Natasha said, stepping into the space next to him, hiding her amusement that a technological genius like Howard Stark could be defeated by an outdated printer.  “Let me just...”

Stark stepped slightly out of her way, but not quite far enough to keep her arm from brushing against his as she reached for the power button.

One of the first things Mr. Stane had told her, almost as soon as she sat down at her desk for the first time, was that she was never, under any circumstance, to touch Howard Stark.  He hated being touched, Mr. Stane had confided.  It made his skin crawl and set him on edge.  And being that touch aversion was very definitely a thing, she’d seen no reason to doubt him and done her best to never touch her boss.

The thing was, if Mr. Stark was touch-averse, then as soon as her bare skin touched his he would have pulled away.  There was plenty of room, and nothing about the situation should have made him feel he was unable to.  He was her superior, and larger enough to believe he had a physical advantage on her, too.  There was no reason for him to stay exactly where he was, with their arms still lightly touching, but that was what he did.

Figuring Steve could kill her for it later, she reached out and patted Mr. Stark on the shoulder, letting her hand rest there while she tamed the printer for him.  As her boss and someone who supposedly hated being touched, he _should_ have shrugged her off or moved away, or at least tensed up.  He did none of that.  Instead he relaxed, just a little, and leaned slightly into her hand.  If Natasha was any judge, she probably could have kept him right there all afternoon just by not moving her hand.

She let her hand slip off him once she was done, grazing his arm, and stepped back around him.  “Let me know if it starts acting up again,” she said.

Mr. Stark nodded a bit dazedly, and Natasha went back to her own work, making a note to talk to Steve.  Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from _Why Ain't I Running_ by Garth Brooks.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to yell at me over on [tumblr](http://singingwithoutwords.tumblr.com/)\- my ask box is always open! ^^
> 
> AlsoIamacommentwhoreifyoufeellikeindulgingthatshortcoming. >.>


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